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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021419">Before We Hit The Ice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars'>allmystars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilty Dean Winchester, Ice Hockey Player Castiel (Supernatural), Ice Hockey Player Dean Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:08:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Trade deals are old news. As a professional hockey player in the NHL, it shouldn’t matter.</p><p>Until it does.</p><p>The Sioux Falls Golden Halos is the newest expansion team. With a clear shot at the playoffs, and his friends as teammates, all is good—great, actually.</p><p>Then Benny’s shipped off. And Castiel Novak shows up.</p><p>Novak has a reputation and Dean hates him on sight. Coming from the Detroit Red Wings, out with an injury for putting a teammate in the hospital doesn’t sit well with them, especially with the upcoming first round, where tensions run high and, more than anything, they need to stick together.</p><p>Resentment poisons their team, and with every passing day, Dean’s hopes of winning, and their tight-knit family, start to crumble before his eyes.</p><p>Dean needs to decide: his best friend or new love? Loyalty to his team or to himself? Either way, he loses something.</p><p>He needs to make his choice before they hit the ice or he just might lose it all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey, y'all!</p><p>This is my first time participating in the Dean/Cas Reverse Bang and, honestly, it's so much fun! I loved working with my partner on this and writing this fic was the best.</p><p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleangel">heylittleangel</a> for beta reading this for me! You were such a big help!</p><p><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books">hit_the_books</a> art can be found in the fic and on their page, which inspired this fic (It's sooo good!). Go give them some love!</p><p>Okay, that's it! Let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hit_the_books art can be found in this chapter. The cover image is at the beginning and the art this fic is based on is at the end. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>Dean bounces his knee as he waits, his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes on the floor. Only two minutes left. They’ll be fine, he knows, but his heart still sits squarely in his throat.</p>
<p>“We’re not being traded, brother,” Benny says on a laugh, slapping his padded shoulder as he unlaces his skates. “Don’t know why you worry so much anyway. S’not like they’d trade <em> you </em>.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, man; I’ve just got a feeling,” Dean murmurs before stripping off his jersey. He knows damn well their team is solid, but that doesn’t mean management feels the same. They just need to make it through the draft deadline. <em> One minute left </em>…</p>
<p>“Laffite.” Dean’s head snaps up, as does the rest of the team. Coach Singer stands in the doorway, his trucker hat pulled low over his eyes, and gestures for Benny to follow him.</p>
<p>“See you later, man,” he says to Dean, slapping him on the shoulder one more time as he stands, his bottom half still in full equipment as he saunters from the room. </p>
<p>“Drinks tonight?” Dean calls after him as dread sinks into his stomach. Benny throws him a thumbs up over his shoulder and then he’s gone. </p>
<p>“He’ll be fine, Cap,” Kevin Tran says as he passes. “Best defense we’ve got; they wouldn’t trade him for anyone.” Dean tries to smile, but he knows Kevin’s wrong. Benny <em> used </em>to be their best defenseman, but he hasn’t been right for a few months.</p>
<p>He tries to shake it off as he changes and heads for the showers. Being strong—being a <em> leader </em>—is what’s important, so he can’t be getting all upset every time one of his men is called into the coach's office. Besides, Bobby wouldn’t even think of letting Benny go—not that it’s his choice, but still.</p>
<p>Dean almost has himself convinced by the time he throws his bag over his shoulder, grabs his stick, and follows the rest of the team out of their dressing room.</p>
<p>Practice was good today, and he’s hopeful—more so than he’s been in a while—that they can really make it into the playoffs. As long as they stay confident and work as a team, they’ll be fine.</p>
<p>As he’s passing Bobby’s office, the door opens and Benny steps out. His face gives nothing away, but Dean stops anyway, waiting while the rest of the team passes, before cocking his head to the side in an obvious question.</p>
<p>Benny sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging as he swipes a hand through his hair. “Can’t make drinks tonight, brother. Gotta catch a flight.”</p>
<p>For a moment, Dean thinks he’s joking, but when no hint of a smile tilts his lips, Dean’s heart sinks. “Where?” he asks, trying to sound just as casual as Benny, but he can feel the burn of loss already. They got into this together and Dean can’t imagine playing for the Sioux Falls Golden Halos without him.</p>
<p>“Phoenix. Not sure what they plan to do with me there, but that’s where I’m going.” He shrugs, slapping Dean on the shoulder before backing down the hall towards the change-room. “Not sure who they’re bringing in, though. Don’t wait up, by the way.”</p>
<p>Dean gives him a wave, but he’s already turned away. He pulls out his phone, dialing Sammy’s number without a second thought—he needs a drink.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean meets Sam in the secluded booth they usually reserve for the team, but he’s the only one there. Granted, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Monday night, so most aren’t keen on getting drunk before the week has really started.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean drops into the booth, catching the tumbler Sam slides towards him before holding it up in thanks and taking a swig. The fiery whiskey burns down his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ve probably heard, then,” Dean says, resting back against the padded cushions. He looks around the fancy club, avoiding Sam’s eyes and taking in the expensive decor for something to do. There are only a few people here, none of them familiar, and they don’t pay him any attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the newness of their team, the Sioux Falls Golden Halos have been doing damn good and the attention they garner is nothing short of overwhelming. Dean’s not complaining by any means, but he definitely needs to be more careful about where he goes and what he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure have,” Sam says, heaving a heavy sigh and taking a sip of his beer. “Had to send over medical records before practice.” He looks at Dean and the guilt is clear in his eyes. “You know how it is, though. You know I couldn’t tell you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean nods. Of course, he knows, and he doesn’t blame Sam, but it still sucks. “Don’t sweat it.” They’re silent for a moment, and Dean thinks about whether asking is worth it. The question burns on the tip of his tongue, and he takes a sip of his drink before deciding the worst Sam can do is tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any idea who we’re getting instead?” He doesn’t look at Sam as he asks, but his heart pounds against his rib cage, threatening to burst free. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous about it—it’s not like it’s their first trade deal—but that sour feeling is back, burning a hole in his gut. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, that could just be the whiskey.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam is careful not to meet Dean’s eyes, and before his brother can even answer, Dean knows he’s going to lie to him—Sam never was a very good liar—and, as the team’s Trainer, how could he </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> know? He would’ve been sent medical records just as he had to send Benny’s off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even still, Sam clears his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he picks at the label of his beer bottle. “No,” he says, shaking his head for good measure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All Dean can do is nod. He didn’t really expect anything else, and he knows Sam’s not allowed to say, but Dean can’t help but feel the sting of disappointment anyway, and the burning curiosity that engulfs his every thought for the rest of the night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Next morning’s practice has Dean’s gut rolling as he walks into the arena doors. He waves at the fans who’ve come to watch, but he’s not really paying attention—too busy worrying about the guy who’s replacing Benny and who he might be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite his persistence, Sam wouldn’t tell, and now he has no idea what he’s walking into. Will the guy even fit? Benny worked perfectly, but will this guy be the same? By now, most of the team knows Benny’s gone, and they’ll all know when Bobby brings in the new guy. Will they be pissed?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean needs to pay Bobby a visit—he needs to know what they’re getting into so he can be calm for the guys—so instead of continuing on to the change-rooms, he veers left and knocks on the office door labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Coach</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come in,” Bobby says, and Dean pokes his head in. He’s alone, shuffling some papers around in his filing cabinet, so Dean shuts the door behind him and takes a seat in one of the chairs on his side of the desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Bobby,” he says, noting the glare Bobby shoots him. Dean sighs, tipping his head back and rolling his eyes—so it’s going to be like that? “I gotta know,” he says, dropping his head back down. “Who is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bobby doesn’t answer for a moment, shuffling some more papers around to buy himself some time, but Dean waits—he’s got plenty of time before practice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not gonna like it,” he says, but that’s nothing Dean didn’t already know. He doesn’t like the fact that Benny was traded in the first place. Bobby grunts when all Dean does is shrug and throws himself into his old office chair. “Ever heard of Castiel Novak?” he asks, enunciating every syllable as if it’s hard to get his mouth around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “You’re kidding,” Dean says, his stomach dropping at the name. “Novak from Detroit? But he’s a fucking asshole!” Just as he says it, the door swings open behind him and Bobby just stares at Dean like he’s the world’s biggest idiot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Novak,” he says, not bothering to look up. “Just in time to meet my Captain.” He gestures to Dean, who closes his eyes as his cheeks prickle with heat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid, stupid, stupid!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean twists in his seat to find an icy blue stare directed at him. He pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand, which Novak takes, but it’s awkward as hell. “Nice to meet you,” Dean says, forcing politeness into his tone, but Novak just cocks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? Certainly didn’t sound like it.” He pushes a hand through his mane of hair, brushing it out of his eyes so that Dean gets to see the full force of his displeasure. “A </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking asshole</span>
  </em>
  <span>, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annoyance burns in Dean’s gut—he was at least going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be nice, and maybe even apologize, but Novak really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an asshole, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell you what,” Dean says, taking a step closer. He’s a big, menacing guy, he knows, but Novak doesn’t even blink at the unspoken threat. “Don’t make a habit of beating the shit out of my team, like you did in Michigan, and we won’t have a problem, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t wait for a response before shouldering past him, and he ignores Bobby as he tries to call him back. The rest of the season’s going to be a shitshow—he can already fucking tell.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You should all know by now—unless you’ve got your heads so far up your ass you can’t see the light of day—but one of our guys is missing.” Most of the team nods, except Garth, who looks around the bench, in search of the missing man. “That’s right, Benny’s been shipped off to Phoenix, so we’ve got someone new. Castiel Novak from Detroit has signed on for the rest of the season.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean tries not to let his feelings show, but it’s hard when Novak steps in, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. No one speaks, and Castiel doesn’t bother to say ‘hello’ before he finds the empty space beside Dean that used to belong to Benny. Dean notices, a bit too late, that Novak inherited Benny’s ‘A’, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Make him feel welcome,” Bobby says, and it sounds more like a threat than a request, before stepping out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Bobby’s order, the guys make a point to ignore Novak on principle. Sure, it’s childish as hell, but they’ve all heard the stories—how Novak attacked a teammate for no reason at all. According to the papers, he broke the guy's arm and shattered his jaw; he’s been in the hospital since.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Novak, on his part, keeps to himself, not bothering to interact as Dean keeps himself firmly turned away as he talks with Victor about their upcoming game against LA. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll definitely need to shift the defense around. Kind of shitty changing partners so late in the game, but who knows how we’ll play together now,” he says, nodding in Novak’s direction while refusing to say his name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kev’s pretty good with just about anyone, maybe try him. Or Balthazar—he’s always up for a challenge.” Victor gives him a dry look as he bends to tie his skates. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Balthazar hitting on Novak just to make him squirm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck, Kevin?” Dean shouts across the ice when Bobby blows his whistle. It’s the third fucking time he’s missed the cross-ice pass, and Dean can’t even blame it on Novak because the pass is </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that just pisses him off more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he says, wincing as they move back to their positions. “Sorry, still getting used to this.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, good passing?” Dean hears Novak mutter under his breath, and he shoots him a glare. Novak doesn’t even flinch as he stares Dean down, daring him to say something. Dean grinds his teeth and lines up at the faceoff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tran, get your shit together. These are the big leagues; if you can’t take a pass, I’ll send you to our Tyke’s training program so </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>can teach you,” Bobby snaps, before dropping the puck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s not even sure how it happens. He wins the faceoff, drawing it back to Novak, but after that, he hasn’t got a fucking clue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One moment everything’s fine and, the next, Gordon’s got Castiel pinned against the boards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bobby’s whistle blares, piercing their ears as Dean grabs fistfuls of Gordon’s jersey and throws him off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean shouts, ignoring Novak as he turns his glare on Gordon, who picks himself up off the ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bastard put my cousin in the hospital—he deserves everything he gets.” Gordon spits on the ice in front of Novak and skates away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean turns back to Novak, but he’s not looking at him. Novak’s eyes don’t leave Gordon’s back, and he shoulders past Dean, adjusting his helmet as he goes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On the goal-line, idjits. If you can’t act like a damn team, you can do suicides, instead. Blue line, back, red line, back, far blue line, back, far goal line, </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” The guys groan—one thing they can all agree on, at least, is how much they hate suicide sprints. “What are you waiting for? Go!” Bobby’s whistle echoes through the rink as their skates cut into the ice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one speaks after the practice, answering questions with snippy, one-word replies. Castiel doesn’t dare to look anyone in the eye, and Dean can’t really blame him. He knows the team will put the fault on Novak—say the half-hour of suicide sprints were his fault—and Dean’s just too damn tired to tell them off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice Novak heading for the showers before everyone else, so by the time Dean throws his towel over his shoulder and heads for the sound of running water, it’s too late to turn back, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>he really didn’t need to see Novak naked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not complaining by any means—they’re all in damn good shape—but he doesn’t need the image of Novak’s perfect ass plaguing his mind, either. He hates the guy, for fuck’s sake! Goddamn it, Winchester, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop staring</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tears his eyes away from the dimples at the base of Novak’s spine and forces his shaky legs to move to the other side of the showers, turning the water to cold for a few seconds, just to be safe. The last thing he needs is to get a fucking woody every time he looks at Novak’s ass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>This is it. Their final game before the first round of playoffs. Los Angeles Kings is good, Dean will give them that, but they’ve beaten them before, so he’s not too worried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>worried about is Novak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s their second game with him—first that he’s actually played, being off with a hand injury and all—and tensions haven’t eased any. Dean knows they’re only as good as their weakest link, and right now, that weak link was put in to make them better—stronger skill-wise and smarter about the game—but if they can’t get their shit together and work as a team, it’s all for naught. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At puck drop, Dean’s sick to his stomach. He breathes in the crisp, cold air and tries to calm his nerves, but as he looks around at his team, noting the veiled nerves and jittery anticipation, they only get worse. Novak doesn’t give anything up, and when Dean meets his eyes, he looks away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean turns to the ref, taking a deep breath as he squares up. The whistle blows and he prays for the best.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shit. Show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s all Dean can say. There’s so much bullshit going on that Dean’s surprised they haven’t all turned on each other yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kevin can’t take a pass to save his life, Gordon thinks it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>job to protect Mick, in net, effectively shoving Novak out of the way and pissing him off more and more each time—it doesn’t help that Gordon plays wing and doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s supposed to do in front of the net. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Novak? Actually, he’s not too bad, which just pisses Dean right the fuck off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re down five to two going into the third and Bobby is </span>
  <em>
    <span>pissed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He paces the rubber floor, grinding his teeth and shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you, idjits? You couldn’t beat a team of tykes at this rate!” He takes his hat off and scratches the back of his balding head. Dean just looks at the floor—he doesn’t know what to do since they’re all hellbent on fucking the team over. “What am I supposed to do with that load of crap you just showed me, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If we weren’t traded a fucking idiot,” Gordon mumbles, nudging Ketch with his knee, who snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something funny?” Bobby snaps, looking over at their corner. They say nothing, and Bobby pulls out his clipboard. “Good, ‘cause we’re making some changes and y’all better listen up.” He points at Dean. “You, and Milligan, and Novak are starting. Walker and Ketch, back to third line—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck—” Gordon shouts, his face twisting in disgust as he looks back at Bobby. Dean glances at Castiel, but he doesn’t so much as nod. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re playing like shit. It’s either third line, or you’re benched.” Bobby doesn’t wait for an answer as he turns his back on them, but Dean doesn’t miss the filthy look Gordon throws at Castiel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After some more rearranging, including a partner change for Kevin, they head back out. Dean’s not paying attention, too worried about how the hell he’s supposed to work with Novak, when he’s tapped on the arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, listen, before we hit the ice…” Castiel says, trailing off as they stop in the doorway. His voice is deep and rumbly, and entirely too distracting. “I thought we could try this play—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just try to get through the first shift, yeah?” he says, his voice sharp with annoyance, and he doesn’t wait for Novak to respond before skating away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dread pools in his stomach and he just wants the game to be over. The crowd and the music roar in their ears as the whistle blows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The puck drops, and it’s… magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s the only word Dean has to describe it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He and Castiel, they just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>work</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dean sends a pass and Castiel is right there, or Castiel cycles into the corner and Dean picks it up without a thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their first shot on net rebounds, but the second makes it by. Dean doesn’t even remember who scored—it could’ve been either of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t talk about it on the bench—not the two of them, at least—and Dean hates it, but something like respect bubbles up inside him. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to respect Novak, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>him—not that he thinks the latter is an issue—but it doesn’t seem to be in his control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their next two goals come just as smooth. Halfway through the period, Dean drops it back, turns to screen, and Novak fires it into the top corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two minutes to go, Dean fakes left and slides it over to Novak, who tips it in—not a pretty goal, but a goal’s a goal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thirty seconds to go and Dean’s dead tired, but he pushes himself harder, his heart racing and his legs aching as the cheers of the crowd pound in the back of his mind. He doesn’t know exactly where Novak is as he rushes the corner, throwing his shoulder into the LA defenseman, but when he knocks the puck back behind the net, Novak’s got it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean moves fast, driving at the net with all his speed as Novak shoots. He holds his breath—it deflects off the post. Adam gets a stick on it and shoots—off the blocker and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The buzzer sounds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Dean mumbles, looking up at the scoreboard. Five to five. He forces his legs to move, skating back to the bench as they set up for four on four overtime. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice pass, by the way,” Castiel says in Dean’s ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t respond but nods before skating away. He knows he’s being a dick, and at this point, for no fucking reason—Novak’s been nothing but decent to him since the game started—but there’s still that kernel of bitterness that his best friend was traded for </span>
  <em>
    <span>this guy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean barely hears a word Bobby says, but he knows he’s going back on with Novak. Adrenaline pumps through him as they wait—they’ve got to get this, they’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>got to</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The buzzer sounds, and he spares a look at Novak, who’s staring right back. Dean looks away as something he refuses to call butterflies flutters in his stomach, and heads for the faceoff circle as the whistle blows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean hates overtime—he’s exhausted and aching, and there’s so much pressure to </span>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it gets in the way of </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> winning—but, this time, it feels as easy as breathing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other team doesn’t even stand a chance against the two of them—they weave in and out, passing and faking like they’ve been playing together all their lives. It’s like a dance—one that only they know the steps to—and it’s so damn simple on the ice with Castiel that Dean almost wishes it was this easy </span>
  <em>
    <span>off </span>
  </em>
  <span>the ice, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes it was as easy as the pass into the slot, or Castiel’s shot that goes just high. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes they could read each other in the way that Castiel sees Dean driving into the corner and cycling back before he does it, or how he knows just the right moment to pass as Dean winds up for the shot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes they could cheer for each other in the same way they do when Dean’s wrist shot sneaks past the goalie's glove.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they can’t, so Dean throws himself at Novak now, cheering as his team piles in around them because they’re going to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>playoffs</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pure, giddy excitement floods him, and he doesn’t care that he’s grinning at Novak, their visors pressed together in the crush of bodies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t care that he’s supposed to hate him, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>hate him—not here, anyway. Not now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The upper level of the bar isn’t quite as loud and Dean prefers it up here. He leans against the railing and looks out over the rest of his team, all celebrating their victory down below. Even now, he can’t keep the smile from his own face, though he’s not about to cut loose like them. He’d rather nurse his beer and get to bed at a decent time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bobby’s going to be pissed when they don’t show up for practice in the morning,” Sam says as he leans against the railing beside Dean. Dean glances over and smiles at his brother before tipping back his bottle, only to find it empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll be more pissed if they show up hungover. Best to just stay away.” Dean spins around, facing away from the crowd below as he rests his elbows against the polished wood. The bar lining the back wall is pretty empty with only a few people taking up stools, and Dean can’t help but take a second look at the head of dark hair at the far end, sipping on his own beer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should talk to him,” Sam says and bumps his arm. “Make him feel more welcome.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, thanks,” Dean says, trying to hide his sneer. Not a chance in hell is he going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>check up </span>
  </em>
  <span>on Castiel Novak. The dude’s a dick. “If you wanna be his friend, have at it, but I’m good with tolerating his company only when I have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come on,” Sam says, pushing his shaggy hair back from his face. “He just moved here, give him a chance. How do you think it feels shipping yourself across the country for a job, only to find out all your coworkers already hate you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean grumbles but doesn’t reply. Sam’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean Dean has to like it. “Fine,” he snaps and pushes away from the railing. “But only because you’re annoying as hell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t wait to hear Sam’s reply as he heads over to the bar, catching the bartender's attention and ordering two beers before taking up the stool beside Castiel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good game tonight,” Dean says, trying not to let his discomfort show. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, glancing at Novak from the corner of his eye as he pushes one of the beers towards him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Castiel says, but whether it’s for the beer or the compliment, he doesn’t know. After a minute, he says, “Got bored of the music?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean raises an eyebrow and looks over at him more fully. “Nah, my brother’s a dick. I had to get away.” He smiles, feeling the buzz of alcohol in his chest as he shifts towards Castiel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel chuckles, shaking his head as his eyes travel over the rows of top-shelf spirits. “I’ve got one of those. A dick brother, I mean.” He fiddles with the label, peeling it off before rolling it between his fingers. “Back in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pontiac</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Illinois</span>
  </em>
  <span> where I’m from.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Illinois, huh? How’s it there?” Dean takes a sip from his bottle and leans on the bar as Castiel pushes his too-long hair back from his face, revealing his clear blue eyes and stubble-shadowed jaw. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Boring as hell,” he says, a small smile turning up his lips. “I had to get out of there—it’s a Christian town, you know? My parents are the worst bible thumpers out there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean nods. “I guess that explains the name, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty bad, huh?” Castiel laughs, and Dean’s starting to think he actually might like the sound. “My brother’s name is Gabriel—I drew the short straw, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think so?” Dean meets his eyes and they stare at each other for a moment too long, taking each other in. “I kind of like it—it suits you.” He looks away as he says it, taking another drink so he doesn’t have to meet Castiel’s eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure what makes him say it, and he’s not even sure why he’s still sitting here, talking with the guy. It’s not as if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, and he’s essentially the reason Dean’s best friend had to pick up and move clear across the country, but the warmth he feels inside him is so new and different from the cold emptiness he’s used to, and he’s not ready to give it up quite yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, Sam’s your brother, then, is he?” Dean can feel Novak’s eyes on the side of his head as he picks at the bowl of nuts in front of him, and it sends another wave of warmth over him. He smiles despite himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right.” Dean nods. “He’s four years younger than me, but you wouldn’t know it. The guy’s a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>giant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel laughs and Dean soaks in the sound. “Do all the younger brothers get the height? Gabe’s a good six inches shorter than me and five years older.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?” Dean says around a mouthful of nuts. He twists around to look at Castiel, resting his elbow on the bar and his chin in his palm. Castiel nods, looking thoughtful, but he doesn’t say anything else. Dean changes the subject. “How are you liking things so far?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as he asks the question, he wishes he hadn’t. Castiel’s face closes off and he turns back to face the bar, his eyes cold and distant as he waves the bartender down for two more beers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. “Here.” He pushes a fresh beer Dean’s way, and he takes it, feeling the cool condensation against his clammy palm. “Makes us even.” Then he stands from his stool and walks away, leaving Dean to stare after him, more confused than ever as a stab of something foreign hits him in the gut. It’s like a weird mixture of longing and guilt, and all Dean wants to do is make it go away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want to warm up?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean glances up from where he’s tying his runners, catching Castiel’s eyes as he wanders over, his Under Armour clinging to his skin as he pushes his hair back under a baseball cap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re in the indoor gym at the arena, only a couple hours before the game. It seems like the rest of the team decided to warm up elsewhere because they’re alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, sure.” Dean drops his foot off the bench as Castiel grabs a soccer ball and moves into the open space.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pass the ball back and forth in silence for a few minutes—Castiel focusing on his footwork and Dean trying to focus on anything but the way Castiel’s muscles shift under the tight material stretched across his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First game of the series,” Dean says, thinking talking might be more distracting as he stretches his leg out to stop the ball. He kicks it back, his arms swinging with the movement as sweat starts to bead at his hairline. “Nervous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think?” Castiel grins, spinning his hat backward before sending the ball back at Dean. “I’ve never been on a team that made it to the playoffs—I’m scared as hell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I ask you something?” Dean doesn’t look at Castiel when he speaks, keeping his eyes firmly on the ball as if flies between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean clears his throat and stops the ball under his foot. “What happened with Gordon’s cousin? Why’d you hit him?” Finally, Dean looks up, but when he meets Castiel’s eyes, there’s something in them that startles him. He’s not angry, or even neutral—there’s something vulnerable in them as he blinks a bit too fast and kicks at the synthetic grass beneath his shoes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… I had my reasons.” That’s all he says, but then he stares at Dean and shrugs. Dean watches him closely and it looks almost like Castiel’s begging him to drop it—to let it go, just this once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says, nodding as he stoops to pick up the ball. “You’ve got your reasons, okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, I—”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ten laps—loser buys drinks.” Then he’s off, leaving Castiel in the dust as he charges for the track circling the room, a grin pulling at his mouth as Castiel shouts behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No fair, dickhead!” But he’s laughing, and despite Dean’s head start, Castiel’s beside him in no time, his arms pumping hard as he pants. They look at each other for a moment and Dean’s heart stutters at the flush-faced happiness he sees staring back at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lap after lap, they stay side by side—whether on purpose or not, Dean doesn’t know—but they finish the tenth lap that way, gasping for breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I fucking won, asshole!” Dean shouts, shoving at Novak’s shoulder as they gasp for breath, bent double with their hands on their knees and sweat dripping from their hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel stumbles and takes a swipe at Dean’s side. “Bullshit, you did not! I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>at least </span>
  </em>
  <span>a step ahead!” He pulls his hat off, his hair soaked and sticking to his cheeks before he slicks it back and tucks it under his hat again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s so distracted by it that he doesn’t respond, swallowing hard before looking away. “Whatever, you’re still buyin’ me a beer.” He turns away, wandering over to the mirrored wall to stretch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can buy me one, too, then.” Castiel follows close behind, his head bent and eyes on the floor as Dean watches his reflection.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pick a mat each and stretch out their muscles as the fans spin above their heads, blowing stale air toward the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Deal,” Dean says, peeking at Castiel from the corner of his eye as he bends to touch his toes. “You’re not so bad, you know? Just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit </span>
  </em>
  <span>of an asshole.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel just looks at him, his face giving nothing away, but then he smiles—small and timid—before looking back at his fingers where they wrap around his shoe. “You’re not so bad yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean grins as warmth bubbles in his chest. He switches legs, stretching deeply, but their upcoming game is the last thing on his mind.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first round is theirs in four games.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To Bobby!” Dean shouts over the roar of cheers in the upscale bar they pulled into after the game. He’s riding a high like never before, happy just to be alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To Bobby!” The others say, holding their drinks up. Even Castiel cheers, his beer high above his head as he smiles up at Dean where he stands on a barstool, swaying from side to side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come, dumbass. Get down,” Castiel says, gripping his arm as he helps Dean get back to the floor. Dean grins, slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and leading him through the crush of bodies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure how they got here—to being such damn good friends—but Dean’s never had so much fun with another person in his life. Not even Benny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How ‘bout some shots, huh, Cas? Whiskey?” He signals to a waitress before Castiel can protest. “Can we get four shots of whiskey, please,” he tells her, giving her his winning smile and a wink. He doesn’t take his arm from around Castiel’s neck as they sit, and pulls him closer so he can talk in his ear. “You fumbled that pass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off, I did not,” Castiel says, a laugh in his voice as he shoves at Dean’s side. “I received every pass as smooth as anything.” He takes a sip of his beer around a smile. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>, on the other hand…” He winces and it’s Dean’s turn to scoff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bullshit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I did no such thing. Thank you, m’dear,” he says to the waitress as she sets down their shots—filled right to the brim. “Just put that on my tab—Dean Winchester.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s just call it even then, yeah?” Castiel says, drawing Dean’s attention back to him with a raised eyebrow as he lifts one shot into the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean does the same and they clink the glasses before tossing them back. The burning liquid slides down his throat, and he gasps but still manages to get the word out with a grin, “Deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> The second round is theirs in five. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd roars in his ears as the crush of bodies pushes him into the boards after the final buzzer sounds, and Castiel is </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re pressed together, practically face to face—nose to nose, even—and despite the excitement of the last two and a half weeks, that damn prickle of guilty longing is still right at the forefront of his mind every time those blue eyes meet his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We did it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>boys</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Kevin shouts as he jumps up onto Gordon’s side, his childish grin stretching his cheeks as he whoops and hollers, barely heard over the cheers of their fans pounding on the glass at their backs and the sportscasters over the speakers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they pull away from each other and head for the change-room, Dean can’t keep himself from searching Castiel out even now and, even though their friendship is still more than a little rocky with certain things, he smiles at him and bumps his fist against Castiel’s. “Nice work, Novak. Didn’t think you had it in you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dick,” he mutters, but there’s a smile there, and Dean laughs as he follows him off the ice, trying not to read too much into the way Castiel looks at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the win</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the adrenaline making him smile like that, not you. Don’t be stupid. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Still, Dean can’t help the butterflies as they head back to the change-room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean! Dean Winchester, over here!” Dean keeps his head down and his hat pulled low over his eyes as he takes the few steps from his car to the front doors of his hotel. The crush of bodies on either side of the door, held back by the barriers and bodyguards, still unnerves him, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the doorman lets him in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so distracted by his racing heart and the shouting still ringing in his ears that he almost doesn’t notice the person standing next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Dean says when he catches sight of dark hair and piercing eyes in the mirrored wall. He glances over at Castiel out of the corner of his eye as they step into the elevator together. Dean keeps his eyes on the door, not daring to look over and meet those eyes head-on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” There’s an awkward silence as the bell dings with every floor. “Gym later?” Novak asks, his voice lifting at the end as he glances over at Dean in the mirrored door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile pulls at the corners of Dean’s lips as he looks down at his shoes. The doors slide open in front of them and they both step out, turning down the hall on their way to their rooms. Just before Dean stops at his door, he taps his knuckles against Castiel’s arm as he passes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After dinner?” He holds the key card up to the sensor and looks to Castiel, who pivots so he’s walking backward down the hall, his hair a wet, over-long mess from his shower. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. What’re we eating?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your choice, my room?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel grins. “Deal. I’ll be over in a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean pushes through the door, leaning into it with his shoulder as Castiel spins around and unlocks his own door, a matching grin on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean tosses his bag in the corner and smiles down at the floor, lost in thought about Castiel—all thoughts of the upcoming semi-finals far from his mind as he imagines sitting on the floor with Castiel, food spread between them as they laugh and talk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure how they got to this point, exactly, with the after-practice dinners and late-night drinks, but the sliver of guilt he feels every time still hasn’t gone away. He tries to ignore it—for some reason, he thinks that’s easier than not being Castiel’s friend—but it’s harder to do when the other guys are around. Not one of them has tried getting to know Castiel since he joined the team.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s the grin for?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus fucking Christ!” Dean spins around, his heart leaping into his throat, and glares at Sam when he finds him on the couch, one leg crossed over the other and two fingers of whiskey in hand. “How the hell’d you get in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter. Why so cheery?” He quirks an eyebrow as a smirk curls his lips and he sips the amber liquid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter,” Dean parrots. God, he hates how damn smug his brother’s been every time he catches him hanging out with Castiel. Yeah, okay, the guy’s not as bad as he originally thought, and he’s good to talk to… and look at. But whatever, he’s still not going to admit that Sam was right. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought we could grab something to eat? Haven’t seen you in a while.” Sam flips through a file in his lap, not bothering to set down his glass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t,” Dean says as he kicks off his shoes and starts unpacking his bag. He’s not sure why he still does it, but it makes this place feel a bit more like home for the short time he’s here. “I’ve got plans.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>what the grin’s about, huh?” A blush heats Dean’s cheeks but he doesn’t answer, choosing to ignore his brother in favor of folding his socks. “You’ve got a </span>
  <em>
    <span>date </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Castiel, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, it’s not like that,” Dean says, his nose scrunching up as he turns his back on Sam. No matter how good looking Castiel is, it’s not like that—it’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>be like that—so there’s no point even getting his hopes up about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I guess I can get out of your hair.” He downs his drink and sets the glass aside before backing towards the door, his grin still firmly in place. “Don’t forget to ice that shoulder—I can’t have you sitting out a game or two at this stage.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean waves him off. “I got it—don’t worry about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally </span>
  </em>
  <span>my job, but whatever.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean smiles at his brother, waving over his shoulder as Sam swings open the door and leaves, letting it click shut behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Dean waits for Castiel, he pulls out an icepack and wraps it in a towel before pressing it to his aching shoulder. He still can’t believe he made such a stupid mistake, taking a hit like that—he’s surprised all he did was bruise it, actually. It could’ve been so much worse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean barely has time to change into sweats and a t-shirt before there’s a knock on the door, and he maneuvers his ice pack so it balances on his shoulder as he pulls the door open with his good arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The smile is automatic, especially when he sees the cute little way Castiel holds up two takeout bags and grins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thought we’d celebrate our win with something special.” He steps past Dean and wanders into the room, looking around like his isn’t the exact same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah? What’d you get?” Dean locks the door behind them, deciding it best so they’re not disturbed—the last thing he needs is the rest of the team barging in on their quiet dinner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel presses his lips together, excitement shining in his eyes. “Burgers,” he whispers, before breaking out into a grin as a few strands of damp hair fall into his eyes. He drops down to the floor in front of the couch, not one for furniture as Dean’s learned over the last few weeks. “And fries,” he adds with a shrug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow, really pulling out all the stops, huh?” Dean drops to the carpet beside him, crossing his legs as Castiel hands him one of the greasy takeout bags while sticking a fry between his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I figured you probably shouldn’t be working out right now,” he says, nodding at Dean’s injured shoulder. “So this way, you’ll feel too gross to try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sneaky bastard,” Dean says, but he’s not mad—not in the least—and takes a bite of the juicy burger, feeling ketchup drip down his chin. “Shit,” he says and waves his hand at Castiel for a napkin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel laughs, but to Dean’s shock, doesn’t hand him one, reaching out with his thumb and wiping it off instead. He cleans his fingers off on his own napkin as Dean stares, trying to decide, not for the first time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel does it. Every. Damn. Time. Dean’s not even sure why he asks for his own napkin anymore—must be an Illinois thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard the guys giving you shit earlier,” Castiel says after a bit, and Dean just nods, his mouth full. They’d been bitching at him for hanging out with Castiel since he started doing it, and he tries not to let Castiel know, but that bastard is </span>
  <em>
    <span>observant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it; they’ll get over it.” He shrugs, not meeting Castiel’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, I appreciate this.” Dean looks up at him when he doesn’t elaborate, but Castiel’s not looking at him. Instead, his eyes wander around the room, taking in every detail he can find.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This room not meet your standards?” Dean asks around a mouthful of fries, raising an eyebrow as he leans against the couch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? No, it’s fine.” He shakes his head, looking back at Dean and there’s something different about his eyes now, but Dean can’t quite pinpoint it. “You know, I saw you fumble that pass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean stops chewing, his eyes lifting to Castiel’s before narrowing. “You did not,” he whispers, glaring daggers at the smirking asshole. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did so, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His grin widens as he leans back on his hands, his shirt pulling tight across his muscular chest and distracting Dean for half a second before Castiel speaks again. “Pay up, butterfingers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Butterfingers</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>just call me that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if I did?” Castiel says in a low rumble before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes have gone wide and playful, and before Dean knows what he’s doing, he dives across the space between them and wrestles Castiel to the floor, paying no attention to the burning ache in his shoulder. “Dean, what the hell—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They scramble for leverage, rolling and grasping for the other’s wrists as they laugh. Every part of Dean is pressed up against every part of Castiel, and he’s not sure how it happens—though he’s blaming his bum shoulder—but, somehow Castiel gets Dean’s hands pinned above his head as he straddles his waist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You fumbled,” Castiel pants, his wild hair sticking to his cheeks as he leans closer, and the scent of his body wash hits Dean like a truck, stealing his already shallow breaths. “Say it. Say you fumbled.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>He doesn’t want to. </span><em><span>God</span></em><span>,</span> <span>he doesn’t want to, but with Castiel this close—his knees squeezing Dean’s hips, and his chest inches from brushing Dean’s—he thinks he’d give Castiel the world if he asked for it, just to put him out of his misery. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He rolls his eyes, if only just to avoid looking into Castiel’s. Every muscle in his body is strung tight with tension as his blood sings. Dean’s breaths come faster with every second that passes. “I fumbled,” he whispers, and Castiel’s triumphant </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoop </span>
  </em>
  <span>is almost worth it if it weren’t for the growing ache in his groin and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>excruciating </span>
  </em>
  <span>proximity of Castiel’s hips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If he just sat a </span>
  </em>
  <span>little</span>
  <em>
    <span> lower…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a moment for Dean to realize Castiel isn’t moving away. He sits on Dean’s stomach, both hands clutching Dean’s wrists and holding them above his head as he smiles down at him, so damn pleased with his win that Dean could almost call it </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute </span>
  </em>
  <span>if he wasn’t so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>turned on </span>
  </em>
  <span>by it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When can I expect my winnings?” Castiel asks, his voice rumbling against Dean’s chest and sending a wave of heat through his veins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean licks his bottom lip, unable to tear his gaze away from Castiel’s smile, and for a moment, Dean thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span>…maybe they could just—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean-o! Open up!” Castiel is gone in an instant and across the room in another as Gordon pounds on the door before rattling the handle. “Why the hell is it locked? Come on, man, let’s get some drinks!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean drops his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes as his heart sinks again. He’d give anything to be able to tell Gordon to fuck off and have Castiel back in his lap again, but the moment is gone, made clear by the cold look of detachment on Castiel’s face as he grabs his things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” Dean asks, pushing himself up on both hands before hissing when his shoulder protests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go out with your friends,” he tells Dean, barely looking him in the eye as he pulls on his shoes. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Cas, no, we’re supposed to hang out—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine, Dean. Really, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He tries to force a smile, but Dean doesn’t buy it for a second. He pushes to his feet and tries to make Castiel look at him, but without much success. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, man, at least come with us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel lets out a harsh bark of laughter and Dean tries not to flinch. “Uh, no thanks. I’ll see you later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like that, he’s gone, sliding past Gordon on his way out, and Gordon doesn’t even have time to register that Castiel was there at all before he’s back in his room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, why the fuck was he here?” Gordon asks, pointing over his shoulder with a piss poor excuse for nonchalance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Game strategy.” The well-practiced lie rolls off Dean’s tongue like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and he hates it, but it’s simpler than the truth. Besides, he’s already decided there’s no way in hell he’s heading out for drinks tonight. With his mood gone to shit, he’d be surprised if one of his teammates didn’t walk out of that bar with a bloody nose after a shitty comment and one too many drinks on Dean’s part.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, drinks? We’re all heading down to the lobby, you in? Victor’s got some girls coming over, too.” He grins, wiggling his eyebrows at Dean like he already knows the answer, but it drops from his face when Dean shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, man. Not tonight. I’m beat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” He doesn’t wait for more arguments before shutting the door in Gordon’s face and locking it behind him. Rude or not, he doesn’t really give a fuck—all he wanted was a quiet night with Castiel, but that’s gone to shit, so he might as well get drunk on his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s been trying to catch Castiel’s eyes for the last ten minutes, but his resolve not to look anywhere but at his own folded hands is, apparently, unshakeable. Dean can’t even talk to him in here because there’s no way he’s letting Ketch in on their conversation and seeing as they’re crammed into the hotel conference room for a strategy meeting, there’s no getting around that anytime soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean fidgets with his hands, picking at his nails and trying to work out some of the pent up stress inside him as they wait for Bobby and the team manager, Ellen Harvelle, to show up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as he thinks he’s about to go mad with the waiting, the door flies open and the two of them step in, looking exhausted with matching cups of coffee in hand. Damn, why hadn’t Dean thought of coffee?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look alive, boys, we’ve got shit to get done.” Bobby drops into a chair near the end of the table and tosses a binder on the smooth surface that Dean knows to be the Sioux Falls Golden Halos’ Playbook. The man carries it everywhere, always jotting down notes and changing things up—Dean’s surprised he can read it at all anymore, what with all the extra ink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Ellen says, ignoring Bobby as she hands out a miniature, stapled version of Bobby’s playbook, the white and gold logo front, and center. “We’ve made some changes to the lineup, as you know, which means strategy needs to change. Turn to the first page, and you’ll find the lines.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean flips the page and finds exactly that, his own name right at the top of the list with a capitalized </span>
  <em>
    <span>C </span>
  </em>
  <span>beside it, and under it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Castiel Novak </span>
  </em>
  <span>with an </span>
  <em>
    <span>A </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the words Right Wing. He tries to hold back his grin when he sees it, but it falls away almost immediately when he sees the third name below Castiel’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur Ketch, A, Left Wing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any suggestions?” Bobby asks, and, by the tone of his voice, Dean knows he doesn’t expect there to be any. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Ketch says, and it has Dean dropping his head back with a sigh. “Why not move Gordy back to the first line and the new guy back to the third line? He should have to work his way up like the rest of us, that’s only fair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bobby doesn’t say anything but stares Ketch down as he scratches his beard, and Dean’s stomach drops when it looks like Bobby’s actually thinking about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come on! Seriously, Bobby? This isn’t a fucking pissing contest; Cas and I work best together, better than Gordon and I, so why the hell not have him first—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Slow down, Dean. I’m not moving your boyfriend around so unknot your panties and shut up.” Dean’s face flames and he snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth and not daring to look at Castiel as his stomach twists itself into knots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Bobby knows that Dean’s bisexual, but holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, way to make it known to the whole fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>room</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dean stares down at the list of names in front of him, slouching in his chair and picking at the corner of a page as Bobby speaks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe we should move you back and find someone who can act like an adult, huh? Do his fucking job without bitching about what’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Dean doesn’t look up to see Bobby glaring across the table at Ketch, but he knows that’s what he’s doing, even without seeing it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inias and I work well together,” Castiel says, and this time, Dean does look up, but still, Castiel isn’t looking at him. “He needs some work on cycling but otherwise, we play well enough together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Bobby pauses this time, Dean </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s thinking, and not just thinking he’s an idiot. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah, that could work, actually.” He makes a note in his binder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold up,” Ketch cuts in, leaning over the table and looking between Ellen and Bobby with a scowl. “I’m being moved? How the fuck did we get to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>being moved? Novak hasn’t done fuck all to prove—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just shut your fucking mouth and stop acting like you carry this team on your back,” Dean snaps, letting his annoyance get the better of him as he sits up in his chair. “He’s better than you—than </span>
  <em>
    <span>most </span>
  </em>
  <span>of us—so get over it and </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better than Benny, too, right?” Ketch says, his thick accent lilting into something low and threatening. “What happened to loyalty, mate? Trading one best friend for another doesn’t look like it to me, or anyone else, for that matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A surge of guilt hits Dean right in the chest, cooling his temper and turning his blood to ice. He stares Ketch down but the idea that he’s somehow betraying Benny sinks in and he can’t shake it. Has he been disloyal? Does making friends with the new guy shit on his friendship with Benny? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, Dean’s thought about it, but is it true? Does everyone else also think he’s the biggest hypocrite there is? He preaches family and loyalty, but is he practicing it, too?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Bobby can’t speak, Ketch pushes back his chair and storms out with his playbook clutched in his hand. The door slams behind him and Bobby lets out a heavy sigh. “Why the fuck do grown-ass men act like children?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck if I know,” Ellen says, standing as well and draining her coffee in a few long gulps. “Guess we’re done for the day, boys. Rest up—Dean, how’s that shoulder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” he says, his hand flying up to touch the sore muscles. He’ll be good to go by the next game.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take care of it; we don’t need you out a game or two.” She gives him a rare, soft smile before following Bobby out of the room. Then it’s just Dean and Castiel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean leans forward, folding his hands on the table as he looks at Castiel, who still refuses to meet his eyes, staring down at his playbook like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Look, Cas, I’m sorry about him. He’s just pissed about Benny and what you did to Gordon’s cousin—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, you know?” Castiel says, cutting Dean off mid-sentence as he shuts the playbook. Dean can see the muscle jumping at his temple as he grinds his teeth, and, finally, he looks at Dean. “I’m not your fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and I can take care of myself.” With his blue eyes blazing, he stands, tension obvious in every muscle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know what to say, his mouth hanging open as his stomach twists—he feels sick, but all he can do is watch as Castiel leaves the room. What the hell was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>“</b>
  <span>Dean? Winchester! Listen up, this is important!” Dean’s head snaps around when Bobby shouts, and he sits back, feeling like an idiot as every guy in the room looks at him. Well, everyone but Castiel, who hasn’t looked at him since the game strategy meeting almost a week ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, Coach,” he says, rubbing at his sweaty forehead with a gloved hand. He’s been on edge all game, his thoughts a million miles away and it shows. He’s playing like shit, and it’s his fault they’re down three nothing going into the third.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to step it up—every win is important, even the first in a series. We can’t afford to lose, got it?” He’s looking at everyone around the room, meeting all their eyes, but Dean feels like he’s talking straight to him. As the captain, it’s his responsibility to rally the guys, but he feels anything but inspiring. “Dean, you have anything to say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses, bouncing one leg as he stares at the ground. “Let’s just… get out there and kick some ass, yeah?” He looks around at all the guys. His family—his </span>
  <em>
    <span>brothers</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and doesn’t feel like they have that anymore, but he meets every set of eyes that look at him. “This is what we’ve been fighting so hard for, so let's go take it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a roar of agreement as they get to their feet, and Dean tries—God, does he </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span>—to feel a rush of something other than exhaustion. He wants to feel the excitement, but his stomach twists itself up into a knot of tension and frustration and he just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not even five minutes in, Castiel takes a dirty hit and Dean </span>
  <em>
    <span>loses </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. He’s not sure why or how, but he ends up on top of the guy, feeding him one after another. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean! Winchester, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Someone pulls at his jersey, but he doesn’t care as his fist connects with the guy's jaw, splitting the skin. His knuckles ache and something hits the side of his helmet, knocking him to the side, but he doesn’t stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s jerked to his feet by his pads and he stumbles but doesn’t fall. He fucked up, he knows, and he can hear Bobby from the bench, cursing him, but anger pulses through him, still, and he shakes with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whistle blows. Five-minute major, a ten-minute misconduct, and a game suspension. Fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You fucking idiot! What the hell were you thinking?” He doesn’t answer as he’s shoved through the doors, sent back to the change-room. Fuck. Shit. Why the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>did he do that? He’s supposed to be the </span>
  <em>
    <span>captain</span>
  </em>
  <span> for fuck’s sake! Lead by example and all that bullshit!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hurls his helmet across the room where it cracks against the cement wall before falling to the floor. Both gloved hands go through his hair as what happened starts to sink in. What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>is wrong with him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean drops onto the bench and buries his head in his hands, not bothering to get changed just yet. He hears the sound of the buzzer, signaling another goal, but for who, he has no idea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure how long he sits there for, but when the door flies open, slamming against the wall, he looks up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You get kicked out too?” He asks, meeting Castiel’s blazing eyes as he glares at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not, I’m not that fucking stupid.” He throws his gloves in his bag and tears off his helmet, throwing it in too. “The game’s over. We lost, by the way. Four, nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is your problem?” Dean snaps, pushing to his feet and grabbing at Castiel’s shoulder. He pulls him around to meet his stare and Castiel doesn’t back away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t need you fighting my fucking battles, Dean!” Castiel’s voice gets louder with every word and he shoves Dean back. “People get traded all the fucking time in this business, you know? It’s part of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>job</span>
  </em>
  <span> but your </span>
  <em>
    <span>team </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t seem to get that because they’re the furthest thing from </span>
  <em>
    <span>professional </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ve ever met!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare put this all on us—</span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>are the one who came in here with the piss poor attitude like you’re better than the rest of us—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>better than you!” Castiel pushes him back another step and Dean stumbles, but, for whatever reason, he doesn’t shove back, even as anger pulses through him, filling him with pent up rage and making him shake with adrenaline. “I’m fucking better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you, but you’re all too fucking proud to see it! Benny was holding your team back and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>why he was traded, but you’re all taking it out on </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my fucking choice</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean flinches, but he doesn’t think Castiel notices through his rage. He looks almost crazy with his sweat-soaked hair hanging in his eyes and the wild look of red-faced anger he’s got. Dean doesn’t have a thing to say—he just stands there and takes it, everything inside him telling him Castiel’s wrong. He doesn’t know anything and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but a tiny part of him feels guilty and ashamed because it knows he’s right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re about done, I’d like to do some of my own yelling, Novak,” Bobby says in a low growl, standing just inside the door with the rest of the team at his back. Castiel gives him a curt nod and steps away from Dean, not bothering to look at him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean sits back on the bench, cringing internally because he knows what’s coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Winchester, what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>was that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, here we go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Dean whispers under his breath as the final buzzer sounds, ending their second game of the series with a six to one loss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was a disaster if he’s ever seen one. A complete fucking mess and he can’t even blame anyone but himself. No one plays with Castiel like he does but, still, he wasn’t on his game—not even a bit. Dean thinks he missed more passes than not, and all his shots on net were flimsy and weak at best. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been days since they spoke—since Dean’s spoken to anyone, really—but this is fucking bullshit. He’s tired of the fighting and the anger, and they need to get past it before they end up losing their chance in the finals because of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Sam’s right—maybe it’s time to bury the hatchet and move on with their lives, as friends or not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean lets out a heavy sigh as he heads down to the change-room. He should probably just get it over with now, rather than wait until he chickens out. So, he tugs at the sleeves of his suit jacket, adjusts his tie, and heads for the lower levels of the arena to wait for Castiel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean watches as the door opens, his heart leaping every time it swings inward, before falling again when none of them are Castiel. He counts as they go, wondering if maybe Castiel has left already, but when the last of his team leaves and he can still hear the showers running, he figures Castiel must be alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck this,” he mumbles before shoving through the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just give me a minute!” Castiel shouts from the back, but Dean’s done giving him time. He’s tired of this fight and he wants to be done with it. So, without even bothering with his clothes, he marches into the showers, ignoring the stifling steam as he shoves the door open and steps inside. “I said, give me a minute—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t really give a fuck what you said,” Dean growls, pushing Castiel back against the wall when he turns around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, what the fuck is wrong with you? Get off me!” He shoves at Dean’s chest, leaving two wet handprints over his lapels. “Can’t this wait?” He turns away, rinsing the soap from his hair and ignoring the fact that he’s stark naked. Dean can’t though—he’d forgotten how fucking hot Castiel is, and he knows it’s wrong, that it breaks so many laws, but he can’t tear his eyes off him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, this can’t fucking wait, Cas, because I know you won’t hear me out otherwise.” Dean pulls him around again, this time pinning him to the wall with a forearm over his collarbone. “So, tell me, why are you refusing to talk to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel’s chest heaves against Dean’s arm, and there’s a fire in his eyes that’s never been there before. There’s anger, obviously—he’s got that in spades—but there’s something else, too. Something deeper and harder to name. “Because you’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dick</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he snaps, leaning towards Dean and inadvertently bringing them nose to nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean blinks away the water sluicing down his forehead and into his eyes. He’s properly soaked by now, the expensive suit clinging to every inch of him as he presses down harder on Castiel’s chest. “Bullshit. I was a dick before we became friends. Hell, I was a dick </span>
  <em>
    <span>while</span>
  </em>
  <span> we were friends. I’m not buying it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel laughs, but it’s bitter and resentful, and he turns his head away, refusing to look at Dean. So Dean watches the water droplets glide over her cheek, wanting nothing more than to lean in and taste them, but Castiel would probably break his nose if he tried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Castiel snaps, facing Dean head-on, his eyes hard and his jaw clenched tight. “Because I know you’d rather have him here than me and you’re still bitter about the fact that I took his job.” Dean scowls, more than a little confused, but Castiel keeps going. “I’m not about to fight a man I’ve never met for your friendship, Dean. I can’t do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, don’t try to tell me it isn’t true, okay? I’m not stupid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that hurts more than anything Castiel could’ve said because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong, and that’s why Dean feels so guilty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not because he befriended his best friend’s replacement, or because he likes playing with him better—it’s the fact that, when it comes right down to it, Dean would rather have Castiel on his team than Benny. He’d choose Castiel over his best friend any day of the week and it’s eating him up inside.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t say this though—he doesn’t think he has the strength—so he turns it back onto Castiel. “You know what I think?” he says, leaning closer but their noses don’t quite brush. “I think you’re scared; I think you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>running </span>
  </em>
  <span>from something. So, what is it, Cas?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He’s got a good poker face, Dean’ll give him that, but he sees the flicker of something in his eyes, and he knows he’s hit a sore spot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? That so?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Tell me then, why’d you put Gordon’s cousin in the hospital, huh? Was that just for fun?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not!” Castiel scoffs, shoving at Dean’s stomach, but he doesn’t move, staring Castiel down until he cracks. “Fine, you want to know?” The venom in his words is enough to make a lesser man flinch, but Dean leans into the bite. “He called me gay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s blood freezes—the breath catches in his lungs and pushes himself away from Castiel, his heart sinking and face falling despite his best effort to remain neutral. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with being gay?” he asks, and he wishes he didn’t sound so insecure but fuck him, he didn’t expect </span>
  <em>
    <span>Castiel </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that guy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Gordon, sure—that’s why Dean hasn’t told </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>about his sexuality—but from Castiel? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Castiel says, and there’s some kind of understanding in his voice—something Dean can’t see in his face with his head turned to the floor—that does something funny to Dean’s heart. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Not until he started threatening me for it—you know, when he found out </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s true</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Castiel’s voice breaks after that, and the vulnerability in it hits Dean hard. He can see it in the way Castiel’s shoulders curl inward, and the nervous flick of his eyes from Dean to the space around him, but all Dean can feel is </span>
  <em>
    <span>relief</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s so strong it almost sends him to his knees, but it’s the pent up longing that has him taking a step closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Dean knows what he’s doing, he cups Castiel’s cheeks in both hands, twisting his fingers in the strands of dark hair flowing over his eyes, and brings his mouth down on Castiel’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All his built-up feelings come rushing out, and he drags him closer, pressing every part of himself to every part of Castiel. It’s wet and soft and urgent all at once, and, after a moment, Castiel pulls him closer, twisting his hands in Dean’s jacket and bringing him in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, Dean,” Castiel moans, and heat shoots straight through him, zipping down his spine and sending a shiver through his bones. Castiel’s already deep voice turns gravely and something about it has him weak in the knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s hands travel over Castiel’s skin, feeling every fevered inch he can reach, and Castiel doesn’t stop him. He pulls his mouth away and Dean pants as Castiel kisses along his jaw, making his way back to Dean’s ear and sucking at the spot just behind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean tightens his fingers on Castiel’s waist and lets out a breathy moan. “Cas?” he whispers, tightening his fingers once more. “Cas, can I…” His fingertips graze over Castiel’s hip bones, making their way to his cock before stopping. He pulls away, searching Castiel’s eyes for his answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, y-yeah. Yes,” he says, nodding as he pulls Dean back in. “Please, yes—” He crushes their lips together, fast and urgent this time as Dean’s fingers curl around him, feeling the hot, hard length against his palm as Castiel’s knees dip and his breath stutters out of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean kisses him hard, feeling his own pants tighten as he strokes Castiel, pumping his fist faster and faster, loving how Castiel’s breaths speed up to match until he’s panting against Dean’s lips, his eyes squeezed shut as he scrambles to get ahold of something to keep himself standing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something close to adoration floods Dean’s heart as he watches Castiel, and all he wants to do is watch him forever. He doesn’t remember ever feeling like this before—not with Lisa or Cassie, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and it’s terrifying, especially when Castiel opens his eyes to stare right into Dean’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bright blue has gone dark with lust and Dean’s almost too caught up in them to notice the hands tearing at his belt and pulling his pants open. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jerks when Castiel’s wet, warm hands wrap around his cock, pulling it from his boxers and stroking it with quick, clumsy hands. Dean shudders, losing his rhythm on Castiel as his eyes close. He leans forward, pressing into Castiel as a deep moan echoes through the change-room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean brings his hand up to cup the back of Castiel’s head, pushing his fingers through his thick hair and gripping them in a tight fist as he brings their mouths together. The pressure inside him builds and he can tell Castiel is just as close as he pants against Dean’s lips, barely kissing anymore as their hands speed up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel comes quietly, with a stuttering, gasping breath, one hand tightening on Dean and the other curling around his waist. Dean doesn’t pull his hand away until every last pulse of his orgasm is finished and his come is washed from Dean’s hand, swirling down the drain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stand there for a moment, neither of them moving as their breaths mingle with the steam. Dean can’t find it in him to tear his eyes from Castiel’s as emotion swells inside him. He tries to swallow it back—to push it down and hide it away for later—but Castiel must see it. There’s no way he doesn’t, because it’s so strong inside Dean that he’s sure it shines through to show on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel just stares, his breathing slowly coming back to normal, and he blinks away the stream of water flowing down his face. Without a word, he falls to his knees, wrapping his lips around Dean’s cock and Dean almost comes right then and there. His knees dip and he has to brace himself on the tile wall above Castiel’s head to keep himself from collapsing to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel sucks and licks with practiced ease, bringing Dean to the back of his throat and holding him there before pulling back, drawing moan after moan from Dean’s lips as heat blazes through him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean pants, twisting his fingers through Castiel’s hair to guide his head, though he doesn’t need to—Castiel knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>how to make him crazy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pressure builds inside him faster than Dean expects, bringing him closer and closer to his orgasm with every second. He comes with a shout, holding Castiel close when he doesn’t try to pull away. He swallows Dean down and sucks hard, gripping his ass to keep him steady as he licks and sucks him clean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, Dean pulls Castiel back to his feet. He’s not sure where to go from here, but he knows he doesn’t want to let this go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should get going,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t move and his hands don’t let go of Dean’s jacket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Dean nods, his eyes still locked on Castiel’s. He doesn’t want to leave—if they leave, all this disappears, and he doesn’t want to risk it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both jump, their heads snapping around as the voice echoes through the change-room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y-yeah, just a minute!” Castiel calls back, then he’s gone, stepping out of the shower and grabbing his towel before Dean can say anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean sighs, his heart heavy as he drops his head. They need to leave, and Dean needs to find something to dry off with, but he doesn’t want to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear Castiel getting changed, though, so, with a lump in his throat and a sick twist in his gut, he turns off the shower and steps out into the cold air of the change-room.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean steps through the change-room door the next morning, searching the space for Castiel, and he finds him staring right back. His heart skips a beat in his chest, but Castiel looks away, going back to getting ready for practice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t talked since the previous night and Dean’s stomach twists every time he thinks about what that could mean. He needs to focus on the game and he hasn’t been able to do that since… well, it’s been a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Dean. Didn’t see you after last night’s game. What happened?” Kevin calls across the room, grinning as he stretches out his legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Oh, I uh… I went back to the hotel.” He shrugs, throwing his stuff down on his spot and pulling off his jacket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He refuses to look at Castiel; since they didn’t actually talk about it, he has no idea where they stand, but he can feel Castiel’s eyes following his movements as he undresses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? We came by your room after—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably asleep,” Dean says, brushing Kevin off. “I went to bed early.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Makes sense.” Kevin nods like it’s the most logical thing in the world, but he doesn’t say anything more, and, for that, Dean is grateful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In truth, he’d heard them knock, but he was too busy sitting on the shower floor, letting the hot water fill the room with steam as he replayed the events of an hour before in his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over and over, all night, he couldn’t think of anything else. Even now, the tension inside him pulls tight, and it’s all he can do to ignore Castiel from the other side of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More than anything, he worries how it’ll affect how they play together, but the moment they step on the ice, he knows he worried for nothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Game seven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s never been more nervous in his life. After the first three losses, they came back to win three, and it’s given the team a real confidence booster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Dean shouts, holding up his hand for the tennis ball they’ve been chucking around the change-room for the last ten minutes. He catches it with ease before sending it off again to a grinning Castiel, who throws it to Kevin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t talked about what happened in the shower after game two, but it’s fine. Dean’s just glad they’ve gone back to being friends, at least. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Castiel didn’t want to be in his life anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gordon tosses the ball back to Dean, but he sends it wide, so when Dean stretches out for it, he stumbles, his skate catching on his bag. “Fuck, dude. Hope your passing’s better than that in half an hour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gordon gives him the finger, but he’s grinning, and Dean tosses the ball to Balthazar before sitting down, waving Kevin off when he looks to him with the ball held up by his ear, ready to pass, and he throws it somewhere else with a shrug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you say, Cap? Think we’ve got our mojo back?” Aaron drops down beside him, bumping their shoulders together as they both look around the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean shrugs. “The guys seem to be in good spirits. They’re not being assholes, anyway, so that’s a plus.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But do you think we can win?” He can feel Aaron’s eyes on the side of his head, staring with the intensity of a child asking if Santa Claus is real. Dean doesn’t look at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” he says, nodding as he watches Castiel grin—something Cas doesn’t do very often with anyone but him. Dean tries not to let himself get jealous, but it curdles his gut anyway. “We’re a good team as long as we </span>
  <em>
    <span>play</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a team. I think we’ll do just fine,” he says, finally turning to look at Aaron. He gives him a reassuring smile and claps him on the back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, boys. Listen up,” Bobby says, pushing through the door, his playbook in hand and a grim look on his face. Dean takes a deep, calming breath, trying to shove back his nerves, but it doesn’t quite work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a burst of speed, Dean gets by the defense, angling just right to look over his shoulder and… yes, Castiel is there. He shoots it back, his heart racing as he pivots to face the shot, screening the goalie as Castiel shoots—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The red light flashes, the buzzer rings, and Castiel’s arms go up. Dean grins as he tackles his linemate against the boards. He feels the crush of bodies around him, cheering them on, and as Dean looks up at the clock, he sees that they’re almost there. Four to three with thirty seconds left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean meets Castiel’s eyes and his stomach flip-flops as a silent thought passes between them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re almost there. We’re almost in the finals. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean knocks their helmets together as they break apart. “Whatever you gotta do,” he says, pointing at the goalie. “Down to this end.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got it, Cap,” Castiel says with a grin as they line up at center ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart pounds as he waits for the whistle, watching the ref’s hand as he drops the puck, then—shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He loses the draw and it’s back to their defense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, shit, there’s Castiel. He’s—fuck, go, go, go! </span>
</p>
<p><span>`</span> <span>Dean gets himself moving as fast as he can, pushing through the defense as the clock ticks away the remaining seconds. He watches Castiel’s every move as he brings it down to the corner, keeping it along the boards as Dean dives in to help. </span></p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Come on, come on, come on.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shoves his shoulder into the defense, twisting around as he keeps the puck moving. His lungs burn and his muscles ache, but they’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The buzzer sounds and the crowd goes wild.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean stops. He stands there and looks up at Castiel. It’s like slow motion—like they’re moving through water just staring into each other's eyes as they realize they’ve done it. They’re going to the finals—then the world erupts around them. The rest of the team piles into a crush of bodies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to the finals, motherfuckers!” Gordon shouts, jumping up and down as they cheer. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean cups the back of Castiel’s helmet and brings their foreheads together. Neither of them says anything—their grins say it all—but how Dean feels at that moment is so much more powerful than any excitement he could ever feel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because he knows, right then and there, that Castiel is the best thing he never wanted. He’s the best thing he’s not sure he’s allowed to have, but that’s okay, because, for now, they have this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The celebration is insane.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t bother going to a club, but rent out the hotel event room instead, with a DJ and an open bar. It’s wild and Dean couldn’t be having a better time if he tried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s got one arm around Castiel’s neck, and the other hand holding a glass of whiskey—he’s not sure which number this one is, but it’s no less than five if he had to guess—as they sway to the music.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beat pumps through Dean’s chest like a drum, filling him with energy even though his body is so tired he could collapse. He spins closer to Castiel so that they’re nose to nose and chest to chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wanna head up to my room for our own celebration?” he whispers, a lopsided grin curving up his lips. Castiel matches it, his eyelids drooping a little as he nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lead the way,” he says, and downs the last of his drink as Dean does the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Dean leads. With Castiel’s finger hooked in his belt loop, they weave their way through the jostling crowd and out the door, ignoring those who shout their names over the music. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stumble into the elevator, barely waiting for the doors to close before Dean has Castiel pinned against the wall. Then they’re kissing and it’s sloppy and rushed and absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dean pulls him closer with his hands fisted in Castiel’s hair, every inch of their bodies pressed together as the floors ding away behind them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel shoves Dean back when they reach their floor, and they’re in Dean’s room in seconds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heat ripples over Dean’s skin as he tears at Castiel’s clothes, not caring where they land when he tosses them away. He wants Castiel naked and on his bed, and he wants it </span>
  <em>
    <span>now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This way,” Dean pants, dragging a half-naked Castiel through the bedroom. Dean shoves at Castiel’s pants as Castiel rips open Dean’s shirt, sending buttons flying across the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Castiel says as he tosses the shirt aside, and Dean laughs at just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>unconvincing </span>
  </em>
  <span>that apology is. He lies back on the bed and pulls Castiel on top of him, kicking his pants the rest of the way off until they’re both in nothing but their underwear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bullshit,” Dean whispers, then rolls them over as he kisses Castiel again, holding his face in place as they scoot further up the bed until Castiel’s head reaches the pillows. Dean trails his lips from his mouth, across his cheek, and along his jaw until he gets to his neck, sucking a bright purple hickey there for the world to see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess you’ll just have to go shirtless,” Castiel says with an exaggerated sigh as he runs his fingers over Dean’s chest. “What a shame.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have other shirts, dumbass.” He laughs, pressing another kiss to Castiel’s neck before shoving his boxers down. “Get these off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So bossy,” he mumbles but does as he’s told. Then they’re both naked, writhing against each other as their combined moans and sighs fill the room. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on, but Castiel does that to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S’that what you want? Me on top?” Dean stops his movements, clutching at Castiel’s long hair and making sure he meets his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel shrugs. “I’m good with whatever, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, uh,” Dean says, scratching at the back of his head as heat rises in his cheeks. “Well then, if you don’t mind, I’d kinda like to, you know, bottom, I guess?” He cringes at his own words, but he doesn’t get the chance to really be embarrassed because, suddenly, he’s on his back with Castiel hovering over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds good to me,” Castiel murmurs against his lips before working his way down Dean’s torso, leaving soft, sucking kisses, and sharp, nipping bites as he goes. “D’you have a condom? And lube?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah. Yeah, in my wallet.” He gestures to the nightstand but throws his head back on the pillow when a mouth wraps around his hard cock, sucking him in and sending pleasure arching through him. “Fuck, Cas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure when Castiel reached for the lube, but, suddenly, there are fingers pressing at the tight ring of muscle. Dean gasps, clenching up before releasing and letting Castiel push a finger inside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs, rolling his hips to get him deeper, and Castiel chuckles above him, taking his time before adding a second finger, then a third. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s sure Dean is ready, he rolls on the condom, spreads more lube over himself, and gets into position between Dean’s spread thighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ready?” he whispers, hooking Dean’s knees over his elbows and leaning in. Dean nods, though it’s a little shaky and he has to blink Castiel into focus when he leans closer. “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?” Then he kisses him, their lips molding together as Castiel pushes inside, slow and gentle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Dean whines, throwing his head back as an ache blooms inside him. It’s not exactly painful but it’s definitely not </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfortable</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He takes quick breaths and squeezes his eyes shut, even when Castiel freezes. “No, no I’m fine. Keep going.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” he hisses, dragging him closer with his hands in his hair. “God, yes, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel nods, pushing in deeper and deeper until he bottoms out. Dean feels full enough to burst and he doesn’t dare to shift even a muscle as Castiel pulls back out before pushing in again, faster this time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Dean moans, his chest heaving as pleasure sparks over his skin mixing with the alcoholic buzz floating through him. Castiel leans closer, the angle shifting, and, on his next thrust, he hits something inside Dean that has him seeing stars. He throws his head back, shouting loud enough to hear through the walls, and then Castiel is pounding into him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The headboard bangs against the wall with every thrust, but that’s the last thing on Dean’s mind as he pulls Castiel closer, crushing their lips together as white-hot pleasure builds inside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, Cas. Why is this the first time we’re doing this?” Dean tugs on his hair, pulling a moan from Castiel’s lips as his hips jerk and stutter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Cause you’re a stubborn asshole,” he murmurs, not missing a beat as he thrusts harder. “Could’ve been doing this all fucking year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, you were a dick to me, too,” Dean grumbles, but he’s cut off by a breathy whine when Castiel’s thrusts shove him further up the bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were a dick before you’d met me!” Castiel says, but there’s no anger there and the smile on his face hits something inside Dean, a flood of emotion pouring out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he whispers and he means it. He never should’ve treated Castiel the way he did. It was childish and petty and Dean knows he was wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up about it while I’ve got my dick inside you, yeah?” he says, one side of his mouth tilting up as he thrusts harder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean throws his head back on a laugh, but it’s cut off almost immediately as his breath catches in his throat. “Fuck, Cas. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’m so close.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It only takes a few more thrusts and Castiel’s fist on his cock for the pressure building inside him to burst. Dean cries out, throwing his head into the pillows as he claws at Castiel’s back, sending him over the edge too, with a few stuttered pumps of his hips and a soft moan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lie there for a bit, neither of them willing to move, and Dean clutches at Castiel’s back, not entirely aware of what he’s doing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So many emotions flood him then, tightening his throat as fear settles in his heart. He buries his face in Castiel’s neck, soaking in every moment before it’s all taken away because he knows it will be. Every great thing Dean’s ever had has been taken from him, so what’s to say Castiel will be any different?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You owe me a new shirt,” Dean says as he pulls the useless one on and wanders out into the rest of the hotel room, buttoning his slacks. Castiel glances up from where he stands behind the bar, pouring a drink for the both of them. He’s back in his suit, shirt tucked in and everything, and looking like Dean could tear it right back off of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell you what,” Castiel says as he rounds the bar, passing one glass to Dean as he takes a sip from his own. “We win the cup, I’ll buy you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ten</span>
  </em>
  <span> shirts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How ‘bout one for every goal?” Dean asks, moving to stand between his legs where Castiel leans back against the bar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” Castiel hums, wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist and sneaking his fingers under the open shirt. “Nah, you’ll turn into the worst puck-hog.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think so?” Dean leans closer, their lips brushing as he cages Castiel in with his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How about every point, huh?” Castiel cocks his head to the side, a small smile curving his lips as he gazes into Dean’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Deal,” Dean says, before leaning in to kiss him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They jump apart when someone bangs on the door and Dean curses, stomping over to answer just to get them to shut up. “Who the fuck do you—” He freezes, eyes going wide as the words catch in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, brother,” Benny says, his smile hidden by his beard. “How’s things?” He looks past Dean when he doesn’t move, and his face tightens, obviously catching sight of Castiel. “You gonna introduce me to your </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah…” Dean steps back, letting Benny in as Castiel sips his drink, one hand in his pocket as he stares at Benny over the rim of his glass. “Benny, this is Castiel Novak. Cas, this is Benny Laffite.” He waves between the two, but Benny doesn’t extend a hand to shake and neither does Castiel. Dean can practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the tension thickening the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My replacement? Damn, Dean, you sure as hell move on fast. What the hell are you doing hanging out with my </span>
  <em>
    <span>replacement</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” He lets out a stiff chuckle like it’s meant as a joke, but Dean knows better just by the tightening around his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Apparently, Castiel sees it too, because he tosses back his drink and scoops his jacket up off the floor before pulling it on. “I’ll let you two catch up,” he says, not bothering to look at Dean as he heads for the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas,” Dean says, his eyes tracking Castiel across the room as Benny moves over to the bar. Dean follows Castiel, grabbing his wrist before he can leave. “Hey, why are you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel spins to face him, his eyes cold and hard when they meet Dean’s. “I’m tired of this, Dean—the petty, passive-aggressive, childish bullshit. I’m tired of it, so figure this shit out, then come talk to me, but I’m not doing this anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he’s gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Dean breathes, closing the door with more force than he should. The sound echoes through the room as Dean shoves both hands in his hair and turns around to glare at Benny, but he’s too busy checking out the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trading me in, huh? What’s up with that?” Benny doesn’t smile, or laugh, or give Dean any reason to believe he’s joking, and Dean’s had about enough of the passive-aggressive bullshit too, to be honest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Benny’s eyes snap to his and he sets the bottle of aged whiskey back down. “Wrong with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Brother, you’re the one hanging out with my replacement like it’s no big deal. Where’s the loyalty, man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Guilt rushes in so fast it makes him sick. His stomach twists itself in knots, but anger boils inside him, too. Why does he always have to give everything up? Why can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>have something that makes him happy? Dean’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick </span>
  </em>
  <span>of being alone—angry that it's what everyone seems to expect—and he’s done holding it all in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, fine, I’m being </span>
  <em>
    <span>selfish</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but why </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> I?” He drops his hands to his sides, ignoring the fact that he’s half-dressed and more than a little drunk. “Why can’t I have someone, Benny?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why does it gotta be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Benny slams his glass down, the amber liquid sloshing over the edge and wetting his fingers. “He’s the reason I’m stuck on some shithole team with no future and contract that’s best used to wipe my ass with, so why does it gotta be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Castiel Novak</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean pauses, his mouth hanging open as the reason floats into his mind and to the tip of his tongue. It’s simple, really—the most truthful thing he’s ever felt—but so goddamn terrifying he doesn’t know what to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words fall from his lips on a soft, pleading whisper, “I love ’im, Benny.” Dean shrugs, defeat weighing him down. He doesn’t know what to do—his best friend or Cas? Either way, he loses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Benny doesn't respond, but his jaw clenches rhythmically. He doesn’t look away and neither does Dean—he needs him to understand that this is real. It’s not going away, so he says it again and he’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep </span>
  </em>
  <span>saying it until Benny can accept it, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Benny, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean steps off the ice behind Ketch and Gordon after their second loss of the series. They’re tied at two apiece and it’s getting brutal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean should've expected it, what with it being Detroit they’re up against, but, somehow, it’s worse than he imagined it’d be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, if Novak could just get it together, maybe we’d actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Gordon murmurs, throwing a scathing look at the back of Castiel’s head, who walks in front of them. Dean watches as he twitches—like he wants to look back, but decides against it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How many passes can one guy give away? Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never should’ve got him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At least Benny could fucking back-check.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s anger boils higher with every misplaced accusation. He can feel his ears getting red and fists clenching by his sides, and now it’s not just about protecting Castiel or fighting his battles for him. They’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>team </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking talk like that about teammates. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone sit down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Dean yells, tossing his stick aside as his temper boils over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They do as they’re told, too startled to argue. Even Bobby just closes the door and leans against the wall, waiting for Dean to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m getting really fucking tired of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>blaming</span>
  </em>
  <span> bullshit. When we lose, it’s as a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>team</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and I don’t care if you don’t like someone or think you can do their job better—they’re your </span>
  <em>
    <span>team</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean starts to pace—he needs to work off some of this energy before he snaps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking team, my ass,” Ketch murmurs, and Dean spins around so fast he’s surprised he doesn’t stumble and whips his glove at Ketch’s head, hitting right between the eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If that’s your attitude, you can get the fuck out right now.” Dean stares him down, but all Ketch does is look at Bobby, who just gestures at Dean in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>you heard him</span>
  </em>
  <span> way. Dean turns away, meeting every eye in the room that’ll look at him, but they mostly stare at the floor, ashamed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, we’ve got three games left and I think we can do it, but you’ve gotta get your shit together and grow the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck up</span>
  </em>
  <span> because this isn’t kindergarten and loyalty is to who’s on your side.” Dean pulls off his helmet and sets it on its shelf before sitting down and looking at them again. “And, yeah, Benny’s still my best friend, but Cas is my teammate, and that means something different. So y’all had better get on the same page and do it right fucking now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s just knotting his tie, the rest of the guys already gone, when Castiel shoves back into the change-room, looking just as pissed as Dean did earlier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, getting up in Dean’s face and shoving his chest. “How many times do I have to say it? I don’t fucking need you to fight my battles!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean just sighs, too tired for this fight. “I’m not doing this right now, Cas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean drops the two sides of his tie, giving up on it for now. “What do you want me to say? I’m not sorry and it had to do with my </span>
  <em>
    <span>team</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so no, I’m not going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>let you deal with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean stumbles back, startled by the hand shoving him into the wall, but he doesn’t fight it. He watches Castiel’s blazing eyes, instead, and the way water drips down his cheek and flies from his wet hair when he moves too fast. Every little thing, no matter how small, reminds Dean why he did what he did and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” His voice is low and menacing now, but Dean just smiles, shaking his head as he looks past Castiel. “You chose him, so leave me alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like a fist in the gut, hearing Castiel say those words because Dean </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>choose Benny. He hasn’t spoken to him in </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tough luck, angel,” he murmurs, unable to look Castiel in the eyes. “’Cause they’re not just your battles anymore.” Dean sidesteps him and walks out, leaving Castiel standing there, frozen to the spot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>week</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Sam. He won’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you actually tried to talk to him? I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> tried?” Sam narrows his eyes on Dean when he opens his mouth to argue before snapping it shut again. “That’s what I thought.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps flipping through his folders, trusting Dean not to let him run into anything as they make their way out the back entrance of the arena. Dean tries not to scan the line of cars for Castiel, but he thinks he catches sight of dark hair ducking into a car a few down, but he can’t be sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sam, we just </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost</span>
  </em>
  <span>. One more and we’re out; what happens if he never talks to me again?” That’s what Dean’s really worried about. There are a thousand other things that should be on his mind, but Castiel is at the center of it all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously?” He gives him side-eye as camera flashes blind them. Dean blinks away the spots in his vision, ignoring the fans calling his name from behind the barriers. “The only reason he won’t talk to you again is because you’re too much of a coward to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>him talk to you. This isn’t high school—one of you has to make the first move, and it’s probably you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean sighs, shaking his head as his car pulls up and he slides into the back seat with Sam right behind him. He thought his brother would be more helpful, but he should’ve known he’d say exactly what Dean </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to hear. Damnit if he isn’t right though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the ache in Dean’s chest tells him it’s about damn time he got over himself, too. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel. Misses him in a way he’s never missed another person in his life. It’s the kind of longing you can only feel for a person that’s right in front of you, but so far away they might as well be on the other side of the planet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t tell you what to do, Dean. You already know that.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Game seven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, after Dean’s speech, they pulled through and won the last two games, but Dean can’t say what’s really changed other than the fact that the tension has shifted from being between his teammates to being about the final game.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean bows his head, cupping his face in his hands as his knees bounce. Only twenty minutes until puck-drop. Twenty minutes until the most important game of his career.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he can’t think of anything but the man sitting a few people away, still ignoring him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean went to Castiel’s room after the last game, but no matter how many times he knocked, the door never opened, leaving him bitter and hurt as he went back to his own room. Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to fix things with Castiel, or if he even can, but, right now, they just have to get through his game. He’ll figure it out after.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is it, boys,” Bobby says, drawing their attention. “I don’t have to tell you how important this game is—if you don’t know by now, I don’t know why the fuck you’re still here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean looks around at the faces of his teammates. At Kevin, who’s bouncing up and down on the bench, and Balthazar, who lounges like he hasn’t got a care in the world. To Gordon, whose focus is so sharp Dean wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started billowing from his ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To Castiel, who watches him back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean forces a shaky smile but Castiel just looks away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come on!” Dean shouts, throwing his hands up as the refs call yet </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>shitty penalty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s fucking brutal. Just one after another like they’re the only team on the ice. Their games against Detroit have always been rough, but now they’re just playing dirty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, it’s Kevin. “Tripping, two minutes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For fuck’s sake,” Dean grumbles as he’s let off the bench. They’re already down two goals with less than a minute left in the first period.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don't lose your head,” Castiel whispers in his ear, startling Dean so bad that he actually jumps. He looks at Castiel, a question in his eyes, but Castiel doesn’t smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe score a goal, huh?” Dean says, pivoting to face Castiel as he backs towards the faceoff circle. It’s an offering—a white flag waving in submission—but he’s not sure if Castiel takes it or not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe try not to fumble a pass, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Dean says, but unease still burns his stomach when Castiel turns away without a backward glance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second period goes better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t scored yet, but they manage to stay out of the penalty box, and now Dean leans over the boards, his heart racing and hands shaking as Gordon breaks through the defense, heading for a breakaway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go, go, go!” Dean shouts, pushing up on his toes as he leans over to see past Castiel’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gordon pushes harder, but the defense is catching up, and he wraps his stick around Gordon’s knees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck!?” Dean shouts when Gordon’s dragged down, throwing his hands out to both sides as the crowd shouts, their indignation not quite matching his, but it’s close.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean settles a bit when the whistle blows and the referee crosses his hands above his head in an X, indicating a penalty shot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Gordon!” Ketch yells from behind Castiel, kicking the boards as Gordon retreats to center ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd quiets down as Gordon explodes into motion, carrying the puck with more speed than Dean expects. He handles it from one side to the other before bringing it through his legs, faking left, and lifting it at the last moment, sending it soaring into the top right corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“YES!” Dean cheers, holding out his hand as Gordon skates by, grinning from ear to ear. Dean’s heart races as the crowd roars, and he watches as the score ticks over to a goal each, tying them as the second period ends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean starts to worry when they get into the third. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s only thirty seconds left, they’ve got a man in the box again, and Detroit’s pulled their goalie—basically, they’re fucking screwed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The crowd is on the edge of their seats, holding their breath to see what Dean does next. But that’s the problem, he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Every play he and Castiel have thrown at them, they’ve handled, turning the puck over only to be stopped by their defense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn't know what to do next and his heart races as he wracks his brain for a pass or a play or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>they haven’t tried yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands at the faceoff circle in their end, waiting for the Detroit centreman to get his shit together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Castiel’s in his ear, making Dean’s heart race with all the things he wants to say to him. “Dean, flying squirrel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Dean snaps his head around. “Cas, no—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve gotta try.” He holds Dean’s eyes—still guarded and not quite trusting but staring into Dean’s nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Dean nods. “Tell Kevin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel nods before he backs away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart pounds in his throat, choking him as he wonders how in the hell they’re going to pull this off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then the whistle blows and they’re out of time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s got to win this draw—if nothing else, he needs to win </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dean watches the puck as the noise of the arena falls away. It slips from the referee's fingers and Dean moves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows it’s his before the puck hits the ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel lunges from his wing, bypassing the defenceman as he rushes up the ice to the far blue line. Dean doesn’t wait to see if Kevin makes the pass before he’s following Castiel, splitting the defense and praying to any God that’s listening that Kevin makes the pass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just when Dean starts to panic, thinking they’d gone too soon or the other team knows what they’re doing, Castiel looks back and up, his eyes locking on a point above Dean’s head, then he’s got the puck and everything starts to get very real very fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go, Cas, fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p>
<p><span>He does, not wasting a second as the clock ticks away the last few seconds of the game. Dean can see it—the open net and the rush to get there. He can feel the other team hot on their heels, breathing down their necks, and he thinks he might be sick—he might just pass out if Castiel doesn’t </span><em><span>shoot</span></em> <em><span>the</span></em> <em><span>fucking puck</span></em><span>.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>He winds up, eyes on the net, and lets the puck fly. Dean holds his breath, watching it soar through the air, and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The buzzer sounds, the red light blazes, and Castiel’s hit so hard into the boards that Dean’s not quite sure what’s happening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops, standing frozen in the middle of the ice, watching almost in slow motion as one of the Detroit defense catches up to Castiel, hitting him high—elbow lifted and with so much force that Castiel’s head snaps back. It’s the first thing to hit the boards and the air in Dean’s lungs freezes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get up,” he whispers, but Castiel doesn’t. No one seems to notice at first but it’s all Dean can see. “Cas, get </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Not even a twitch. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Get up</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to move—to go to him—but arms wrap around his chest, dragging him back to his bench. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Cas, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Panic swells inside him, but the arms only tighten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Winchester, </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm down</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Bobby grabs his jersey when he’s shoved up against the boards. “Sam’s got him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Dean’s shaking so bad he can’t see straight as fear for the one person in the world he loves as much as he loves his brother—though in very different ways—lies motionless on the ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he can do is watch, helpless, as Sam examines him, and, eventually, Castiel sits up with help from Sam and one of the line’s men. Relief sinks into Dean’s bones, but so does a sense of urgency.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel could’ve been really hurt. They forget, sometimes, how dangerous this job is—how quickly things can go south—and all the words left unsaid between the two of them eat at Dean as he watches as Castiel is helped from the ice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should’ve tried harder. He should’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>made </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel listen to him. He should’ve—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’ve done it, folks! The Sioux Falls Golden Halos have won the Stanley Cup in their first year! What an achievement! I can’t imagine the feeling…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t wait around after the game. He undresses in record time, pushing through the reporters on his way out the back door with Sam close on his heels, and gets his driver to step on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing Dean does when he gets back to his hotel is run for the elevator. He doesn’t even bother waiting for Sam, who shouts at him to hold the door and stabs the button for his floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He practically runs to Castiel’s room, his heart beating out of his chest as every possible outcome runs through his mind. He needs to do this, though. He needs to at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> He pounds on the door, not stopping until it swings open and Dean stumbles through.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, what the hell?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just shut up and listen, okay?” If he doesn’t get it out now, he never will, and he couldn’t live with himself if he never told Castiel how he feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Dean talks over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You make me feel guilty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Good to know, now get out—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You make me feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I want you </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Dean stares into his eyes, pleading with him to understand, and when Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean presses on, taking a slow step closer. “No matter how many ways I spin it, it always comes down to me wanting you here more than Benny, and I can’t—” he shakes his head, at a loss as his heart aches. “I was mad at you—I blamed you for it, but it’s not your fault, Cas, and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’re you trying to say?” Castiel scowls, his eyebrows knitting together as something fragile shines in his eyes—some small vulnerability that Dean rarely gets to see, and never this strong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he just goes for it, laying it all out there as he holds his hands out at his sides—he’s tired of this fight and he just wants it to end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That I love you.” He lets his hands fall as his stomach riots. His heart pounds, waiting…waiting… but Castiel doesn’t say anything. “I… I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, and it’s terrifying, and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The words are no more than a whisper. “That we just won the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley Cup</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I can’t even enjoy it because all I can think about is how you got hurt and I didn’t have the balls to tell you how I feel because I’m just so scared—” His voice catches, then breaks, and Dean stops talking altogether as he waits for Castiel to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel’s expression doesn't change. He’s still just as heartbreakingly confused as ever and Dean wishes he knew what to do, but all he does is stand there, waiting for </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. An acceptance? A refusal? For Castiel to kick him out and never talk to him again? He has no idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” Castiel shakes his head as tears well in his eyes and Dean’s heart sinks. “Dean, I…” He looks up, their eyes meeting, and suddenly the space between them is so wide—</span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> wide—and Dean doesn't know what any of it means, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no matter what Castiel’s reply is, he’d say it all again in a heartbeat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Castiel is in his arms, holding him tight, and everything in Dean sighs. His knees shake with relief and he fists his hands in Castiel’s shirt as all the fear and insecurity melt away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” Castiel whispers, his voice clogged with tears, and Dean chokes, pulling him closer. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean kisses him, hard and deep and so damn perfect he can’t believe he’s gone so long without Castiel’s lips on his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly—so slowly Dean’s not quite sure how it happens—they make their way to the bedroom. Clothes mark their path, strewn across the floor and kicked into corners, but neither of them notices as their hands move soft and slow, growing more and more desperate as the night goes on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere between reaching the bed and tracing moonlight on the other's skin, they find everything they’ve been looking for, and Dean’s not sure how he got him, but he damn well knows he’s not about to let Castiel slip away.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Flying Squirrel works, dickhead,” Castiel says, meeting his gaze in the mirrored door of the elevator. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He’s right, of course—it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The elevator ride to the lobby takes seconds, but it feels like it goes on forever as Dean’s nerves ratchet higher with every floor down they go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before either of them can say anything else, the doors slide open and eighteen stitched, bruised, and grinning guys fill the lobby with their loud, excited voices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, good, you’re here,” Kevin says, a smile spreading across his face as Castiel flinches at the volume. He’s got a concussion—nothing too serious—and Dean can only imagine the killer headache he’s got right about now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to your faces?” Castiel’s confusion matches Dean’s, and they glance at each other before looking back at the guys.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, these?” Balthazar points to his shiner. “It’s nothing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Had to take care of some unfinished business is all,” Gordon says with a shrug, then a wince as he clutches at his shoulder. “That dickhead had it coming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, you fought the other team?” Castiel looks just as astonished as Dean feels. There’s no fucking way they did that—not a chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“’Course. They may have done it for my cousin, but you’re our brother, Novak. Sorry it took us so damn long to get our heads out of our asses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s throat closes up as he squeezes Castiel’s hand. It’s more than he could’ve hoped for, but Castiel seems more shocked than him as he stands there with his mouth hanging open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” Kevin spins around. “Look what we’ve got!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Dean can question what it is, the guys heft the whole ass </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley Cup</span>
  </em>
  <span> into the air. Dean gapes, his mouth hanging wide in awe as he stares at the gleaming metal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look. Right there’s where we’ll be. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sioux Falls Golden Halos, 2019-20</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Kevin points at their plaque with a grin. “It’ll look damn good on top of that bus, huh?” He points to the tour bus parked outside for the parade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, time to go, ladies!” Bobby shouts as he steps off the elevator, a cup of coffee in one hand and his playbook in the other with a bag hooked to one wrist. “On the bus! Novak, put these on.” He hands him the bag, and Castiel pulls out noise-canceling headphones and a pair of dark sunglasses. Castiel takes them with a smile as the rest of the team clears out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stay behind for a minute, soaking in their win as Castiel leans into Dean’s side, the sunglasses on, but not the headphones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, when you get traded again, how’s this gonna work?” Dean asks, ducking his head with a grin as Castiel swats at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess you’ll just have to come with me, huh?” Dean knows he’s teasing, but something about his words lights a spark in his chest. “That is, if you’re up for it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart warms as he leans in, giving his hand a squeeze as he gazes into Castiel’s eyes through the dark tint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, don’t you know I’d follow you anywhere?” And it’s true—to the ends of the earth and back again. Wherever Castiel goes, Dean won’t be far behind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel closes his eyes, his exhaustion clear as he rests his head against Dean’s, a small smile on his face as he says, “I’m holding you to that, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean shrugs—that’s fine by him. “Deal.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Follow me on Twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/allmystars_AO3">allmystars_AO3</a><br/>~<br/>Follow me on Tumblr at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i">allmystars-i</a><br/>~<br/>Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i<br/>~<br/>Come buy me a coffee on <a href="https://ko-fi.com/D1D346EM4">ko-fi</a> if you'd like!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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